If the Shoe Fits (Meant to Be #1) by Julie Murphy

Three days before I’m set to leave Erica’s house for the château, a film
crew descends upon me. I knew they would be here to do pre-interviews for
the season premiere, but I’m still taken by surprise. I keep expecting there
to be formal introductions to the crew, but instead they all just buzz round
me like I’m a set piece.

Beck told me to show up barefaced and to have several different
clothing options ready, so I opted for a white sundress and my mom’s old
locket with a picture of my dad inside.

The moment I walk out of the pool house, three very distinct women
descend upon me. The first one, a petite Black woman, wears her hair in
retro pinup curls around her face with the rest swept into a silk scarf. She
runs a hand through my hair without even asking and begins to examine my
roots. “Huh, not much damage.”

Another woman, this one tall and white with wavy long blond hair and
the kind of makeup that looks like no makeup but actually takes a ton of
skill, holds a blush compact up to my face. “Good cheekbones,” she says.

And the third and final woman, with olive-toned complexion and
dressed all in black, stands a few feet back with a loose measuring tape
clutched in her fist. “Definitely meatier than Beck said she would be,” she
says in a thick Eastern European accent.

“Meatier?” I ask.
“That’s Irina,” says the girl with the silk scarf. “She’s wardrobe and has
no filter, but compared to other wardrobe people I’ve worked with, she’s
more bark than bite. I’m Ginger and I do hair. You’ll mostly do your own
hair during the show—other than for one-on-ones—but I’m around for
touch-ups. Same goes for makeup.”
The woman with the blush moves to inspecting my brows. “And I’m
Ash. I’m technically not supposed to touch your brows, but you’ve got
just…” She attacks with a pair of tweezers. “Just one hair out of place.”
I let out a low hiss. “Thanks, I think.”
The three quickly lead me into the main house, where they have a
makeshift station set up for all their prepping and primping.
While Ash applies my foundation, a very fashionable woman around
Erica’s age steps up to us and says, “Cindy? Hi, my name is Tammy, and
I’ll be playing your stepmom today. Maybe we could run lines when you’re
done?”

“Um, what?” I look to Ash for an answer, but she’s busy at work on my
face. The woman is ushered away before I can ask for more details.
“Beck?”

“Coming!” her voice calls from across the room. “Cindy!” she says as
she approaches me from the side. “You look radiant! Isn’t Ash the best?”

“The best,” I say quickly, even though I’m not yet qualified on the
topic. “But could you please explain to me why some random woman
named Tammy just came up and told me that she would be playing the role
of my stepmother? And apparently I have lines? I thought reality TV was
supposed to be real…ish.”

“It is. Totally. But sometimes, we have to fill in the blanks a little. And
Erica can’t play your stepmom for obvious reasons. Do you know how
many questions that would raise? It’d be a PR nightmare. Everyone would
think you only got on the show because of nepotism and connections.”

“Well,” I say, “that is how I got on the show.”
“The American people don’t need to know that. Sometimes we have to
go above and beyond to keep the magic alive. This isn’t really a lie. It’s just
an alternate truth.”
“Um, that sounds like a lie.”
“Lips relaxed and parted,” Ash demands.
I let out a groan through my relaxed and parted lips as she applies a
sticky gloss.
“And you don’t have lines,” Beck assures me. “We just had to give
Tammy some parameters to work in so she’ll have some ground rules and
then improvise a little. It’ll be so natural, I promise. You won’t even know
the cameras are here.”
I look around at the crew running cords and staging lights all over
Erica’s living room. “Not likely,” I say through my still relaxed and parted
lips.
“Oh, by the way,” says Beck, “change of plans. Anna and Drew aren’t
your sisters anymore. At least not on the show. So make sure the other
contestants don’t find out you’re related, okay? That would just get…
messy.”
“Wait. What? I thought the whole thing was that we were three sisters
vying for the suitor.”
Beck shrugs. “We’re taking a different angle with you and—”
“Beck!” someone calls for her.

“Gotta go!” she says as she disappears into the tangle of crew members.
“Angle? I have an angle? What’s my angle?”
But no one answers. My stomach flips at the thought of going at this
alone. Anna and Drew will still be there, but any shot I had at hiding behind
them is gone.
When I’m done with hair and makeup, I’m guided to the couch, where
some random person shoves a pillow behind my back so I’m forced to
perch on my ass.
Beck sits down on an ottoman across from me and behind the camera.
“Okay, we’re just going to have a conversation. I’ll ask questions and you
answer. If something else comes up, just keep talking. We might have to
pause every once in a while, for noise. When that happens, Ash, Ginger, or
Irina might swoop in and fix your hair or whatever. Cool?”
“Uh, sure. There are…a lot of people here.” I force myself to breathe
evenly before I hyperventilate.
Beck comes to sit down next to me on the couch. “Listen, if we were
doing your pre-interview weeks ago like we did for the other girls, we’d be
able to ease you into this a little bit more. But as it stands, we’re running
against the clock with little time to be precious. I want you to be
comfortable, so I can send everyone who doesn’t need to be in here right
now outside, and we can do this with a skeleton crew. You also need to
know, though, that when you get to the house, it’s going to be this but on
steroids. I’m talking vein-busting, ball-shrinking steroids.”
I nod. I hear what she’s saying. There’s no time to ease me into this, and
maybe that’s what I need—to just be immersed in something so fully that I
can’t even think too hard about it. “They can stay. But, um, could I have a
glass of water or something?”
Beck nods and snaps her fingers. “K! Water.”
Within seconds, a gangly-looking white boy is holding a bottle of water
with a straw in front of my face. “Sip,” he says.
“I don’t need a straw,” I tell him.
“Yes, she does,” Ash, Irina, and Ginger say in unison.
“It’s paper,” he tells me, obviously bored. “Save the turtles.”
I oblige and take my sip while he holds the bottle for me, and the
moment I’m done, I say, “Well, that was awkward.”
Beck waves me off. “That kid just got paid to serve you water. He’s
fine. You’re hydrated. We’re all good.” She stands and heads back to her

ottoman. “How’s our light? How do we look?”
Irina rushes in. “Lose the necklace.”
I hold my hand over it and instinctively say, “No.”
“It ruins the shot,” Irina says with defiance.
We both look to Beck for a tiebreaker, and I think if Irina takes this

necklace off me, I might cry, which is ludicrous, but I’m about as high-
strung as an extreme couponer waiting for her grand total right now.
“Necklace stays. It’s…approachable-looking.”

Irina mutters under her breath, and I think she and I might go toe-to-toe
before all this is said and done.

“Quiet on set!” a South Asian girl with two long braids and a clipboard
covered in band stickers calls out.

“Thank you, Mallory,” Beck says.
The whole room goes completely silent. So silent, in fact, that I’m
scared I might be breathing too heavily, and what if they can hear it on the
mic dangling above my head just out of frame?
Beck nods to the guy behind the camera.
“Rolling!” the girl with the clipboard shouts.
On and off for the next hour, Beck pretty much does a post-mortem of
my life leading up to this moment. The only exclusion is any specific
details about Erica. Other than that, she asks about everything. My dad’s
death. The triplets. Fashion school. Moving back home to California.
Eventually Erica enters, stepping in and out periodically, giving her nod of
approval, and I try not to let my eyes stray. We pause a few times for planes
overhead or car alarms, and sometimes I say something that I’m asked to
repeat, but with more “emphasis”—whatever that means.
When we’re done, the whole room collectively sighs, and within
seconds, the volume of the crew has exploded again.
Beck pats my knee. “You did great.”
“You didn’t tell me you were basically going to neatly display my guts
for the whole world to see.”
She laughs. “It feels like a lot, but we need options. Different angles.
And don’t worry about all these people. A lot of them just check out while
the cameras are rolling until it’s time to do their job again. And anyway, all
this is going to get cut down to, like, two minutes of actual footage.” She
holds a finger up and listens to something in her headset before running off.

I think all that is supposed to be comforting, but going through the labor
of putting my whole life on display is a little bit painful in a different kind
of way.

Erica plops down on the couch beside me, and crew members skitter
away like little ants fleeing a destroyed anthill. “They could have at least
cast someone who looks like me,” she says, motioning to the woman in the
kitchen, where Beck is setting up a shot. “Sorry that I can’t actually play
your mom,” she tells me.

“It must have been really weird for Drew and Anna.”
She lets out a dry chuckle. “Their fake mom’s name was Natalie. They
were very into it, actually.”
“How am I not surprised?”
“I wish I could have been here this morning. Our suitor was having a…
situation.”
I nudge her with my elbow. “Wow, talk about vague.”
“You’re lucky I even said that.”
I swivel, turning into her. “Just tell me one thing. Do you think I’ll even
like him?”
I expect her to brush me off, but instead she presses her finger to her
lips and thinks for a long moment. “You know, up until last week, I would
have said no way…but people have ways of surprising you…and the two of
you—” She stops suddenly, returning to her poker face, like she’s just
realized she accidentally traded producer hat for stepmom hat. “Come on.
Let’s get you touched up.” She stands. “We need touch-ups!”
Within seconds, we’re swarmed.
Erica squeezes my hand before leaving me with Ash, Irina, and Ginger.
For the rest of the afternoon, my fake stepmom, Tammy, and I bake fake
cookies and do fake dishes and have fake conversations and have fake fun.
The whole time, from behind the camera, Beck urges, “Smile! Act natural!”
Those three words spin circles in my head for the rest of the day and
well into the night as I pack my bags and tuck the triplets into bed once
more. Smile. Act natural.

T he next morning, I do a quick run through my room to make sure I
didn’t miss anything. Dropping down to one knee, I check under the
bed, but I don’t find a stray shoe or eyeliner. Instead, all I see is a large
cardboard box. I reach forward and drag it out. Scrawled across the top in
Erica’s quick handwriting it says, Simon’s for C. A soft gasp escapes me.

Last summer, when I tried sorting through some of Dad’s things, I asked
Erica if she could just save some of them for me. I’d already taken one of
his threadbare flannels, his favorite slippers, and a few of his Clive Cussler
novels just after he died, so I felt okay leaving it to her to decide what was
worth keeping. Especially when the alternative was me facing all the pain
I’d been hiding from for years.

I let my fingers dance along his name for a moment. A part of me feels
sick to know that I slept here all week with his remaining belongings just
hovering beneath me, like a ghost. I wasn’t ready last summer, and I’m
definitely not ready now. I slide the box back where I found it and take my
luggage across the yard and into the main house.

Inside, Erica is rushing around with a woman slightly older than her in a
floral Oxford shirt, khaki Bermuda shorts, and thick-soled walking shoes.
“And this is where I keep their favorite cups. They’ll use the other cups, but
these are their favorites. Gus hates celery. Mary will tell you she can swim
without her puddle jumper, but she’s lying. In fact, it’s best to assume Mary
is lying more often than not. She’s not malicious. Just creative. And Jack is
a bigger softy than he lets on and—”

The sound of my two large suitcases rolling over the tile interrupts
Erica’s rapid-fire info dump on this poor woman.

“Oh, Cindy!” she says. “You’re ready! Let’s get Bruce to take you to the
Marriott to meet the rest of the girls.”

“Maybe I should take a Lyft or something? Less conspicuous?”
Her eyes light up. “Yes!” She turns to the woman beside her, who is
surprisingly unfrazzled. “This is Jana. She’ll be taking over with the triplets

for the summer.”
Jana smiles. “Nice to meet you.”
“Jana was the behind-the-scenes nanny for that Nicole + Joel + More

show. You know, the one with the young couple who were having fertility
trouble and then ended up with quintuplets.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Didn’t he cheat on her with…”
Jana smirks. “With their new nanny. After I moved back to Los
Angeles.”
I nod. “Well, I guess triplets will be a breeze for you.”
“That’s what I was trying to explain to Ms. Tremaine,” she says gently
but firmly.
Erica sighs. “Sorry, mom anxiety is at an all-time high today.”
I nod and stand there for a moment. I hate saying goodbye, especially to
Erica. Do we hug? Say I love you? The two of us weave awkwardly back
and forth for a moment before opting for a side hug. Nothing says You’re
my only living almost parent like a goodbye side hug.
I leave my phone in the drawer in the kitchen, but before I power it
down, I shoot off one text to Sierra. I’m disappearing for a little while, but
if you tune in to Channel Eight next Tuesday night, you’ll see why. I love
you.

When I arrive at the hotel, I find that the show has taken over the unopened
hotel bar.

There’s a small check-in table with some junior assistant producers,
including Mallory from yesterday with the braids and the band sticker
clipboard. I line up, get a name tag, and am instructed to leave my luggage
and go mingle with other cast members.

“Cin!”
My heart swells at the sound of Drew’s voice.
Her head bounces above the crowd of women—all of them tall and thin
in very chic, low-maintenance looks.
My hips and I part through the crowd until I see Anna and Drew.
“Thank God,” I whisper.
“It’s so good to see you!” Anna says loudly, sounding more like an
acquaintance than a sister.

A woman who could potentially be a long-lost Kardashian with smooth
straight black hair stretching nearly to her waist crosses her arms over her
busty chest. Pointy nude nails make her fingers look endless. “And how do
you three know one another?”

Anna’s expression goes blank, but Drew swoops in to the rescue. “We
went to high school with Cindy. She was a year behind us, right, Cin?”

I nod. The best lie is always the truth. “Yep, high school.”
“Isn’t that cute?” the woman says.
Anna beams. “Addison, this is Cindy. Cindy, this is Addison.” And then
like she’s the mayor of HottieMcLegville, Anna introduces me to the rest of
the girls in their little circle. Zoe, Claudia, Jen S., Jen B., Jen K., Gen with a
G, Jenny, Olivia, Trina…The names keep coming. There are a few lawyers,
one doctor, and a teacher, but most simply say they’re in social media
consultation, which seems to be code for Instagram model.
“Okay, ladies! Please take a seat,” Beck calls through cupped hands
from where she sits on top of the bar. “Orientation time, people!”
We crowd around little round tables, and I find myself safely tucked
between Anna and Drew. I wave at Beck, but her gaze coasts right over me,
and I’m guessing it’s because she’s trying not to play favorites. Then again,
that assumes I’m her favorite. I shake the thought from my head. She’s
probably that friendly with all the contestants so they warm up faster. Get it
together, Cindy. This isn’t real life. This is reality television.
I felt good this morning. I put on a pair of pointy coral patent leather
loafers I made for my final during my study abroad in Italy and a crisp
white T-shirt tucked into my favorite cuffed mom jeans. But every single
woman here is shiny and glossy and polished in a way I’ve never been. I am
definitely out of my depth here.
“All right, class, listen up,” Beck says. “Most of you know me, but for
those who don’t, I’m Beck. Back at that table are Zeke, Mallory, and
Thomas. They are your assistant producers. And this is Wes.” She motions
to the tall guy with light brown skin beside her with his hair shaved close on
the sides, leaving a pile of curls atop his head. “Think of Wes and me as co-
captains. We are your junior executive producers. We are your people. If
something happens, you talk to us. If something that is supposed to happen
doesn’t happen, you talk to us. Think of us as your mothers, your sisters,
your therapists, your fairy godmothers, but also your dad who sometimes
has to lay down the law.”

“Tell us a dad joke!” someone shouts.
Without missing a beat, Beck says, “I’m reading a book about
antigravity. It’s impossible to put down.”
Half of the room laughs dryly, while the other half makes a confused
tittering noise.
“And of course, the renowned Erica Tremaine is your show creator and
executive producer. She will be in and out during production. We’re about
to load you all up on a fancy bus,” she continues. “At which time we will
distribute a welcome packet with some house rules, a map of the château, a
brief bio of our mystery suitor—”
The women, including Anna and Drew, whistle and squeal.
“I heard he’s a pilot,” someone behind me says.
Beck clears her throat. “And you will also find your room numbers
along with the names of your roommates. We have about four girls to a
room, but that will change as many of you are eliminated. Tonight, we go
from twenty-five to eighteen, so some of you won’t even have a full room
by the time you close your eyes.”
The women groan, and even I feel a sinking pit in my stomach.
“This is when I should give you a lecture about sisterhood and playing
nice and yada, yada, yada, but let’s be real: When has that ever made for
good TV?”
The room goes sharply quiet except for the producers chuckling at the
back of the room.
“I’m kidding,” Beck says. “Sort of. In all seriousness, we want you all
to get along, of course, but don’t forget that this is a competition with true
love on the line.”
Around me, several women nod with fervor. Not Addison, though. She
sits with her legs crossed once at the knee and again at the ankle—is the
woman a contortionist? Maybe a contortionist influencer? Is there an
audience for that?
“And of course,” Beck continues, “a hundred thousand dollars.”
Everyone lets out an excited whoop! Even me! I could do so much with
that money. I’ve been aimless for the last year, but I can’t ignore the little
burst of excitement I feel when I think about what I could do if I won. That
money, even after taxes, could be a real start to something huge for me and
what might someday be my brand. I wiggle my toes inside my shoes, the
worn leather insoles perfectly formed to the shape of my feet, and for a

moment I imagine what it might be like to see these babies on shelves
everywhere in all kinds of sizes and colors. And a very small part of me
even aches for my sketch pad. Not because I have any huge ideas just
bubbling at the surface, but because I miss the feel of it in my hands.

“For a lot of you, this will be a life-changing experience, and we truly
do hope you bond with one another, but don’t forget what you came here
for. Or who you came here for.” Beck claps her hands together. “File up in a
line outside the buses waiting for you in the carport. Please make sure your
luggage is clearly marked…and with that, we’re off to the château!”

We all cheer, and Anna squeezes my hand. “I can’t believe we’re
actually doing this!”

On the bus, Drew and Anna sit together and I sit behind them. Several
women walk past me in search of other contestants, but a petite white
woman with light brown hair wearing a pink-and-white-striped shirt dress
and matching espadrilles stops at my row. “Is this seat taken?” she asks in a
Southern drawl.

“All yours,” I tell her.
She holds a hand out to me, and I’m honestly surprised she’s not
wearing matching lace gloves too.
“I’m Sara Claire,” she tells me.
I shake her hand and try to wedge myself against the wall to give her a
little more space. “Cindy,” I tell her. “Just the one name.”
She giggles, and then pats my thigh. “I’ve got plenty of room, Cindy.
No need for shrinkin’ yourself up into a ball.”
“Th-thanks,” I say, feeling a little self-conscious that she noticed, but
then again, I’ve heard that Southern women have a way of being both polite
and direct.
We sit in silence as we begin to read through our welcome packets.

MIDNIGHT CHÂTEAU RULES

1. No glass containers—none whatsoever!—in the hot tub.
2. Lights-out rules enforced. (Time varies by night.)
3. No cell phones. No emails. No texts. No communication with the

outside world.

4. Violence will not be tolerated. Any violence will result in immediate
elimination and potential law enforcement involvement.

5. Smile! You’re on camera.

A chill runs down my spine. Creepy.
Beside me, Sara Claire gasps. “We’re roomies!”
I look over at her packet and then quickly flip to the third page to catch
up.

ROOM 6:
Sara Claire

Cindy
Addison

Stacy

“I hope Addison and Stacy are nice,” Sara Claire says.
I peer over my shoulder to where Addison sits a few rows back,
whispering to another woman.
“That might be asking for too much,” I mutter.
I flip back a page to find it labeled SUITOR BIO.

This season’s suitor hails from an iconic family known for their
fashion empire.

What? The possible heir to a fashion empire? “Did you see this?” I ask,
pointing to the bio.

Sara Claire peers over my shoulder. “I wonder what brand it is?”
“I don’t know, but the fashion industry is a smaller world than you’d
expect, especially for the big luxury names.” I continue to read, searching
for a hint.

The suitor is known for his sharp-witted humor and business
savvy. He might be vicious in the boardroom, but he’s a total
softy with the ladies. His hobbies include sailing, water polo,
high-stakes Scrabble, and returning his mother’s phone calls.
He’s ready to upgrade from his single lifestyle and finally settle
down with a woman who will challenge him and help represent
the family brand.

Sara Claire taps her pink nail against the page. “Playboy reputation
rehab.”

“Huh?”
She turns to me and in a low voice says, “These guys are always some
kind of archetype. Country boy with family values looking to settle down?
He’s really a right-wing nut with mommy issues. Free-spirited adventure
seeker looking for his soul mate to plant roots with? Immature daredevil
who thinks he’s more special than everyone else. You gotta read between
the lines.”
I tilt my head, looking at the bio once more.
She points to the second line. “Sharp-witted humor means ‘sarcastic
jerk.’ High-stakes Scrabble? More like a gambling addiction. Single
lifestyle? Sounds like he’s got a thing for one-night stands.”
I look at her once again, trying to size her up. Sara Claire is not what I
expected. “How do you know all this?”
“I’m in the business of business. Hedge funds. Family business in
Texas. Daddy calls me his BS radar. I go to meetings and look pretty.
Everyone underestimates me, and I hear all the things their mouths aren’t
sayin’.”
“Whoa,” I say. “That job sounds wild. What are you even doing here?”
She shrugs with a smile. “Would you believe me if I said true love?”
“Wait. You mean you actually buy into all this stuff?”
“Listen, I’m thirty-two. In Southern years, that’s ancient. I’ve tried
every app. Every church singles group. Every website. Every friend of a
friend.” She shakes her head, thinking of something to herself. “When the
casting scouts approached me, I figured I couldn’t tell my mama I tried
everything to give her grandbabies until I really had tried everything.”
She must notice how wide my eyes are at that statement, and she swats
at my leg. “You’re young still, but one day you’ll wake up and wonder
where the time went.” She laughs. “Or maybe you won’t.”
“But you really want to fall for some playboy looking to rehabilitate his
reputation?”
She waves. “I’ve worked with all kinds of scum, and what I can tell you
is that one thing we all have in common is skeletons in the closet.”
We drive for another hour, but the whole time, Sara Claire’s words sink
in. I don’t know what my skeletons would be, but I’m sure they’re there.

I feel fidgety and anxious without my phone, so I guess it turns out I’m
more addicted to that little brick of technology than I thought. Eventually I
just press my head against the glass and watch as Los Angeles slips by us as
we drive deeper into the mountains.

A few girls complain of motion sickness, and I hear someone behind me
whisper, “I always thought the château was on a studio lot.”

Another voice replies, “I heard it’s on an old compound some cult used
to own before they had a big shootout with the FBI. Supposedly no one
would buy it, so the network got a great deal on it.”

I chuckle to myself, knowing that both of those stories are a little bit
true. The show started out on a studio lot but quickly moved out to the
mountains when they got a steal on the property formerly owned by Vince
Pugh, a ’90s teen movie star who turned out to be an actual serial killer in
real life. He’d bought the property from a studio exec whose wife wanted to
bring the French countryside to Southern California.

When we pull through the gate of the château, there’s a lot that looks
familiar and more that doesn’t. Just on the other side of a stretch of tall
hedges are rows of trailers and trucks full of equipment strategically tucked
away. On the other side of the hedges, a long driveway with elaborate
landscaping on either side leads to the front entrance, which welcomes us
with its marble staircase and stately turrets. It’s a little dingier and much
smaller than it appears on television, but that doesn’t stop just about
everyone from gasping. And I have to admit, something about the dramatic
roofline speaks to me.

As the bus door wheezes open, Beck jumps on board. “Okay, ladies,
you are responsible for getting your bags to your room. This might be the
notorious château, but it is not a hotel. There is no valet. Pay close attention
to your house map. If a door is locked, it is locked for a reason. If it’s not on
the map, you don’t need to know what it is. And honestly, if you find a
locked door, I can nearly guarantee you that the only thing behind it is old
camera equipment. And before you ask, yes, the suitor is staying on the
property. And no, I won’t tell you where.”

A few women shriek, and then Beck steps back, clearing a path for us.
We all pause for a second, then make a run for it. It reminds me of
exiting the plane when I first landed at LAX, and Prince Charming—I
mean, Henry—and I bonded over our annoyance with the chaos before he
kindly helped a whole slew of people with their bags.

I let the others go ahead of me until it’s just Beck and me on the bus.
When I walk past her, I wait for her to give me some kind of sign that I’m
not just another contestant to her. She scrolls through her phone as I make
my approach, and I feel a sudden pang of jealousy at the sight of someone
with a phone.

Whoa, maybe I do need a technology detox.
Beck looks up just as I walk past her and gives me a big wink. “Sara
Claire is a good egg. Stick with her.”
“Well, she is my roommate.”
She smirks knowingly. “And you think that was an accident? Very few
things on this show happen by chance. You’ll like Stacy too.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, before jogging down the steps and dragging my
two hulking bags up to the château. I can’t expect Beck to play favorites,
but at least it’s nice to know that I’ve got a friend in this place.
All the rooms are upstairs in a long corridor with two large dorm-style
bathrooms.
If I wasn’t so busy with my own luggage, I would find it highly
entertaining to watch all these women dragging huge overstuffed suitcases
up the expansive spiral staircase. In fact, one contestant loses a grip on one
of her suitcases and it comes barreling down the stairs, nearly taking me
and one other girl out.
At the end of the hallway, I find room six, where Sara Claire is already
hanging up her suitcaseful of colorful dresses. “There she is!” She turns to
Addison. “This is Cindy!”
“Oh, we’ve met,” says Addison dryly. “Cindy seems to know
everyone.”
I smile tightly. “Hi, Addison.”
Perched on the bed across from her is a Black girl with springy curls
dressed in an adorable floral crop top with matching skirt and a pair of
white Air Jordans. Her skin is perfectly dewy with just the right amount of
highlighter, and her black liquid eyeliner is the most precise cat-eye I’ve
ever seen.
“And this is Stacy!” Sara Claire tells me.
“Hey,” Stacy says nonchalantly. And I immediately know that Stacy is
the exact kind of girl I gravitate toward. She’d totally fit right in with Sierra
back in the city. They’re both the kind of girls whose confidence and calm
energy make them the coolest people at every party.

“Hi! I love your shoes. Where are you from?” I ask.
“Thanks. I’m a total sneakerhead. Chicago. Born and raised. Librarian
by day. Makeup artist by night.” She pulls a small oil diffuser from her bag.
“Will this bother anyone if I use it?”
“Oh Lord, no,” says Sara Claire. “I welcome it!”
Addison wrinkles her nose. “I guess not, as long you don’t use any
patchouli. Bleh.”
I turn my back to Addison and give Stacy a wide-eyed look. “Doesn’t
bother me at all.”
Stacy chuckles at my expression as she continues to unpack her bag.
“So, Addison, what is it that you do?”
“I’m an actress and model.”
Sara Claire gasps. “Would you have been in anything we’d know?”
“Oh my God!” Stacy says. “I knew I recognized you!”
“I’ve done lots of things,” Addison says quickly. “I’m going down—”
“‘He got me a FitBike. It’s all I’ve ever wanted,’” Stacy says in a
robotic voice, quoting the now-infamous FitBike commercial that released
last Christmas. In it, a woman receives a FitBike for Christmas, and with a
glazed-over expression, she drones on about how all she’s ever wanted is a
FitBike. Pretty soon #RobotWife was trending and the internet had its
holiday-season meme.
“I’ve also been on CSI: New Orleans before, and I did a few Target
swimwear campaigns, so that dumb commercial is, like, the bottom of my
résumé, just for your information.” And with that, Addison turns on her
stiletto heel and stomps off down the hallway.
The three of us are quiet for a second after the door closes before
bursting with laughter.
“In my professional opinion,” Sara Claire says, “she should embrace her
meme status. Fame like that rarely strikes twice.”
“Right!” Stacy agrees.
I kneel down in front of my suitcase to unzip it. “Honestly, that GIF of
her creepy robot smile was one of my favorite reaction GIFs last year. Too
bad she’s so snotty.”
Stacy plops down on my bed. “Ho-ly…is that your shoe collection?”
She reaches in for a pointed powder-blue satin Stuart Weitzman stiletto with
a crystal brooch. A total dupe of the shoe my mom wore on her wedding
day, which was actually from Payless.

“I guess you could say I have a thing for shoes?”
“I thought I was obsessed,” Stacy says as she turns the shoe over. “We
wear the same size!”
I smile. This is what I love about shoes. I love that I could potentially be
wearing the same size as this gazelle-like goddess sitting before me. There
may not be much we can bond over in the clothing department, but shoes
are an exception. In middle school and high school, I would spend hours
shopping with friends, and I’d always end up browsing the accessories and
shoes, because there was no chance any of those stores carried my clothing
size. But shoes? I could make shoes from just about anywhere work. Shoes
aren’t perfect. A lot of brands don’t carry wide widths or go above a size
ten, but for me, they’ve always been comforting.
“They might be a little stretched out, because my foot is on the wide
side, but you’re welcome to borrow any pair you want,” I tell her. “As long
as you can help me make my eye makeup half as gorgeous as yours.”
“Deal,” she says.
There’s an abrupt knock on the door, and Mallory, with thick, wavy hair
bunched into two pigtails, sticks her head in the room.
“Hey there, Mallory,” says Sara Claire.
“Ladies, we need everyone ready for introductions in an hour and a
half.”
“Introductions?” I ask.
“To the suitor,” Mallory calls as she shuts the door behind her.
I look to Sara Claire and then Stacy. “Is this really happening?”
“You bet your tush it is,” Sara Claire shouts as she jumps up onto her
bed and begins to use it as a trampoline. “Y’all ready to meet my future
husband or what?”
Stacy smiles slowly, like a cat. “Let the games begin.”

S tacy was kind enough to do my makeup, which I appreciate, because
that’s one thing I’ve never gotten into. Give me a tinted moisturizer
and I’m good. However, I did come here with a clear vision of what I would
wear to the first ball, and tonight is all about the shoes.

My shoes, Cindy originals from sophomore year, are a pair of strappy
turquoise heels with matching feathers shooting up from the ankle strap and
curving around the back of my ankle. It took me weeks to find the perfect
feather and days to figure out the best way to attach each feather, but when
the design finally matched the vision I’d dreamed up on my tablet, I wanted
to strut around in these babies everywhere. They’re my ultimate
confidence-boosting shoes, and tonight, I’m going to need every bit of
confidence I can get.

For my dress, I’m in a Sierra original, an ivory midi gown she made last
fall that hugs me all the way down to my mid-calves and has a high slit up
the back. It doesn’t hide an inch and definitely makes it very clear what I’m
working with. I figure if this guy is going to give me the boot on the first
night, it’s probably because of my size, and if that’s the case, the sooner the
better. The neckline is a deep square cut that gives me what Sierra always
refers to as bar-wench cleavage, and the sleeves are a sheer mesh. The
whole look is more “woman with an agenda” than “pageant contestant.”

“Whoa,” Stacy says as she zips me up, both of our reflections beaming
back at us in the mirror. “This is like bombshell chic.”

Stacy wears a mustard-yellow silk gown with a high neck and deep V-
cut back. It’s the exact right amount of sexy. And Sara Claire stuns in a
jewel-encrusted hot-pink strapless gown with a sweetheart neckline.

“We’re hot and we’re ready for this dang ball!” Sara Claire says as she
swings the door open.

The ball is another Before Midnight franchise staple. It’s basically a
cocktail party held on the first night and then again before every
elimination. On television, it appears to be elegant, with champagne

fountains and ice sculptures. It’s also every contestant’s last chance to catch
the suitor’s attention.

We step out into the hallway, and as we’re following the herd of women
down the stairs, I think to ask, “Where’s Addison?”

A woman with a narrow nose that just barely lifts at its point says, “Oh,
the producers came and got her and a few other girls to have their hair and
makeup done by the crew.”

“What? I thought that was only for one-on-one dates,” someone else
says.

The woman shrugs. “I guess the producers are already playing
favorites.”

Sara Claire nudges me. “They’re just trying to get in our heads.”
“Who is?” I ask.
“The producers,” she says simply.
And it’s then that I’m reminded of the fact that no one here knows just
how closely I’m tied to the brains behind this machine.
“The crazier we are, the more entertaining we are, and the more
entertaining we are, the higher the ratings,” Sara Claire says as we walk out
the front door and board golf carts that look like tiny minivans that take us
past the front gates to where lines of tents are set up with rows of chairs.
I know everything she’s saying to be true in a theoretical way. I’ve
heard Erica say countless things just like this on phone calls, but seeing the
reality of it is…unsettling. It’s a side of Erica and her job that I knew
existed but never thought I’d have to interact with.
“Ladies!” Beck says through a bullhorn. “Your seats are labeled. This is
the order you will be going in. You’ll get in the white Rolls-Royce, and yes,
she is our baby. A 1950 original. The car will take you through the gates,
you’ll meet the suitor, and then head into the house, where the bar will be
open to you. When we’re done filming out front, the suitor will come and
mingle out in the courtyard. This is your time to get to know him before this
evening’s elimination ceremony. Reminder: Some of you will be going
home before lights-out tonight.”
Beside her, Wes crosses his arms and smirks. “Go big or go home,” he
yells. “Literally!”
I glance around nervously, searching for Anna and Drew. I see them
both sitting together in the second and third chairs beside Addison, who is

wearing a gold lamé gown with a front and back so low it makes me
nervous. Still, she looks like an actual goddess.

I wave to them, but they’re both nodding intently as Beck talks to them.
I find my seat down near the end, next to a woman with red curly hair
and three oranges in her lap.
“I’m Judith,” she says as I sit down. “I juggle.”
“Cool,” I say, unsure what to make of that.
From years of watching this show and living with Erica, I know that
intro night is a beloved fan favorite. There’s Twitter discourse, message
boards, and even drinking games! (Drink every time a contestant introduces
themselves with a pun the suitor doesn’t get!)
But the point is that the most memorable women on the first night
receive the most camera time when they get the public talking. Of course,
the decisions are always left to the suitor, though I can’t help but wonder
how many of his decisions are influenced by producers pulling strings
behind the scenes.
The question is what can I do or say in ten seconds that will make me
stand out among the crowd? (The very beautiful and glamorous crowd.)
Between Juggling Judith and Meme Icon Addison, I don’t really have
much to offer in such a short span of time.
“Twins!” someone shouts. “You’re up.”
Anna and Drew stand up, and I nearly shout, They’re not twins! But
they’re gone and in the Rolls-Royce before I can even give them a good-
luck wave.
“Twins,” says Judith. “Now that’s a good shtick. They haven’t had that
before.”
The line moves more quickly than I expect, and with every girl that
leaves, the rest of us move down a chair until it’s just Judith and me.
“Good luck!” I call to her as she slides into the back of the limo, the
oranges gathered in her arms.
“I don’t need luck,” she says seriously. “I’ve got skills.”
“We saved the best for last,” Beck says as she slams the door.
I scoff at that. “Yeah, right. More like this guy is gonna be a total
zombie from meeting twenty-five women back-to-back.”
Wes tilts his head, listening in on his headset. “Move it!” he shouts as he
runs past someone from craft services balancing a tray of sandwiches.

“We’ve got a breakdown happening by the pool.” He holds the walkie-
talkie up to his mouth. “No, let her spiral! I need those tears!”

I don’t know if it’s his gross reaction to some woman in crisis or if it’s
just my nerves, but I feel sick to my stomach.

“Whoa there,” says Beck, steadying me. “Ignore him.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think I can do this. I need to go home. There’s
still time. Erica would only be a little bit annoyed if I left now. I haven’t
even really been on camera. And I can apologize to the whole crew that
came out to the house the other day for wasting—”
“Stop.” Her voice is stern. “You can do this, Cindy. You look incredible
and you’re smart and funny and talented. The suitor is going to love you.
The audience is going to love you. And most importantly, they’re going to
die over those shoes.”
I look down at the feathers framing my ankles. My shoes. My beautiful
shoes. Even if all I do is walk out there and introduce myself, millions of
people will at least know my name and see my shoes. Even if I never design
another shoe again, I’ll always have that moment.
I take a deep breath. I can do anything in these shoes.
“Wait!” Ash yells, sprinting up the hill from the trailers down below.
“Wait!”
When she reaches us, her chest is heaving, but she’s holding a
highlighter and brush in her hands. “Sorry Wes had us so busy all night, but
I wanted to get up here to check on you.”
“Me?” I ask.
Ash smiles with a laugh. “Yes, you, Cindy.” She winks. “We all have
our favorites, you know.”
And that little piece of information steadies me even more. “Thank
you,” I whisper.
She dusts my cheekbones and the tip of my nose with rose gold.
“Perfect.”
The Rolls-Royce is straight out of a fairy tale—a glistening white
against the swirling sunset sky, and welded to the grille is the sparkling
Before Midnight logo, a ticking Roman-numeral clock. This is really
happening.
The car drives me the short distance up the rest of the hill and through
the gate of the château as though this were my first time arriving here.

The car stops, and the driver in the front calls, “That’s your cue!”
through the crack in the divider.

I open the door and step out, imagining the camera zooming in for a
close-up of my shoes. (Hey, a girl can dream.)

As I stand, I take a deep breath and a quick moment to smooth out my
dress, and for just a millisecond, I think, What if…What if this random guy
really is the love of my life? What if fate is actually real and the two of us
are meant for this moment?

I look up and am briefly shocked by all the lights and cameras and crew
quietly stepping around us.

My vision focuses, and my gasp cuts through the humid night air.
Tall, dark hair, impeccable suit.
Henry.
Prince Charming himself.

B y the way his jaw drops, he’s as shocked as I am. Or maybe he doesn’t
recognize me. After all this glam, I look like an entirely different
person.

“Uhhh, w-wow.” I can’t stop stuttering. “It’s y—”
“So nice to meet you,” he says, his expression perfectly retracting back
to completely even-toned coolness. “I won’t bite.”
Blood rushes to my chest and up my neck. Him. Biting. Get your mind
out of the gutter, girl! “I’m Cindy,” I blurt. “I love shoes.” I love shoes?
He looks down, and then with admiration, he says, “And I can see you
put your best foot forward. Aren’t those striking?” he asks. “Just like you.”
At my side, a crew member waves me forward.
Oh. Right. Walking. I should do that.
I step forward as Henry holds his arms out, and I lean in for a hug.
“Henry,” he says, his breath tickling my neck. “I’m Henry.”
I step back and instinctively bite down on my lip, nerves getting the best
of me. “I better get to the ball. See you in there?”
“I plan on it,” he says.
I walk into the château, trying to do my best supermodel strut without
looking like a wounded animal. (What they don’t tell you in the pamphlets
is that half of fashion school is pretending you’re a runway model. Sierra’s
walk is honestly America’s Next Top Model level of fierce.)
I open the door, and from the other side I hear a pained groan.
“What the…”
Anna reaches out and yanks me into the foyer.
“Shhhh.” Drew holds a finger over her lips.
“We’re not supposed to be here,” Anna whispers. “But we couldn’t miss
your entrance.”
“You look incredible,” Drew tells me.
My stepsisters pull me in for a three-way hug, and it feels so good to be
alone with them for even a brief moment.

“Did they really make you two introduce yourselves as twins?”
Anna rolls her eyes. “They’re making a bit of it. People keep calling us
twins, and then we correct them and say that we’re almost twins.”
Drew shrugs. “It’s annoying, but hopefully it will help us stand out.”
“Honestly, it’s a little creepy,” I say.
“You little awkward weirdo!” Anna says. “Stop trying to change the
subject. What was going on out there?”
I know that I should keep my secret about Henry to myself. But I can’t
help it. Not with Anna and Drew. “I sat next to him on the plane,” I say
quickly.
Their jaws drop in unison.
“You. Sat next to the suitor on the flight from New York?” Drew asks,
spelling it out slowly and quietly.
I nod.
Anna sighs with delight. “I think he’s super cute, and please know that I
definitely want him for myself, but oh my gosh, if that isn’t fate, I don’t
know what is.”
“There’s no such thing as fate,” I tell her.
“Anna, stop pretending he’s your type,” Drew tells her. “You like them a
little dirty and underemployed.”
Anna pouts for a second, but then nods thoughtfully.
“Stop it,” I say. “Both of you. It wasn’t fate. It was just a coincidence.” I
don’t believe in fate. I can’t. I refuse to believe that first Mom and then Dad
dying was part of some grand scheme. If that’s true, whatever’s at the end
of my rainbow isn’t worth what it will have cost me.
Anna sniffs the air.
“What?” Drew asks. “What is it?”
Anna crosses her arms. “Smells like fate. Looks like fate. Must be fate.”
Zeke peeks his head in from the courtyard outside. “Ladiessssss,” he
says. “Your presence is required outside. Ya know, where the cameras are?”
“Take a chill pill, Zeke,” Drew says in a you-work-for-my-mom voice.
Anna swats at her. “Be right there, Zeke dear.”
Both Drew and I eyeball her as the door shuts behind him.
“What?” Anna asks.
Drew narrows her gaze. “Don’t think I don’t see you flirting with a crew
member. Mom would kill you.”

I laugh as we head outside, thankful to not be the center of attention for
a moment.

Meeting the suitor in advance of the show isn’t expressly against the rules,
but I’m also pretty sure it’s frowned upon. A few seasons ago, one
contestant had a one-night stand with the suitor at a mutual friend’s
wedding weeks before filming, and the rest of the contestants would not let
it go. She was constantly accused of having an unfair advantage, and they
made her life in the house a living hell. So if Henry wants to keep our
transatlantic flight a secret, I’m on board. Besides, we’re only
acquaintances. I don’t even know him.

Which is why, when he joins us in the courtyard, I don’t make any
attempt to swarm him like most of the other women. I glance around to find
Addison and Sara Claire hanging back as well.

Sara Claire smiles at me, but she seems guarded in a way she didn’t just
hours ago. Addison, however, is sending out her usual don’t-even-look-at-
me vibes.

The courtyard is as decked out as I remember it being on television.
Sadly, it turns out that both the ice sculptures and champagne fountain are
fake. Still beautiful if you don’t stand too close, though. There’s a small bar
set up off camera with a guy in a bow tie, black vest, and black jeans lazily
pouring bottle after bottle. I can see how this all makes for great TV magic,
but in person, it just feels like a wedding reception you’d try to leave early.

Over the course of the night, the house staff comes around with trays of
drinks, and soon everyone is talking louder, like we’re in the middle of a
concert. One white woman (who has the longest extensions I’ve ever seen
and can’t stop talking about how she drinks mimosas with every meal) falls
into the pool, and Henry has a heroic moment as he helps her out and wraps
her in a towel. He’s met with a chorus of bitter fawning. Another contestant
named Brenda, a white Spanish teacher from Nebraska with Shirley Temple
curls and clawlike red fingernails, bursts into tears when someone interrupts
her attempts at salsa dancing with Henry.

To say emotions are running high would be an understatement. It’s
almost too much for me to take.

I find Stacy by the outdoor fireplace sitting next to a sobbing East Asian
woman in a forest-green satin gown.

“Is everything okay?” I ask as I approach.
Stacy rubs circles on the other woman’s back and nods. “We’re going to
be fine, right, Jenny?” She turns to me and quietly adds, “I thought it was
just the white ladies losing it, but I guess none of us are immune.”
The crying woman looks up to me and says, “I fell.” Another sob hits
her, and she begins to hiccup as cameras begin to swarm, her cries their
siren call.
“Water,” I say. “Let me get you some water.”
I manage to track down a bottle of water from the guy behind the bar,
and when I return, a small crowd has gathered to hear Jenny’s recount.
“I just stepped out of the car, and then my heel got caught in the train of
my dress.” She sniffs. “And I bit it. Big-time. It wasn’t some cute romantic-
comedy fall where I, like, tripped into Mr. Perfect’s arms. I landed face-first
and—and there was so much blood. They had to call the mediiiiiiiiiic,” she
tells us, her words devolving into another sob.
Around us, I can see the crew eating this up as Wes whispers to one of
the camera operators to tighten his zoom.
“At least you didn’t break your nose,” Addison deadpans.
“Not helpful!” I snap at her.
She practically snarls, making it even clearer she’s not here to make
friends.
Jenny wipes her tears away. “No, she’s right.” She smiles up at Addison
in a familiar way, like she’s very used to playing beta to some other girl’s
alpha.
Addison looks to me. “And, Cindy, I’ve been meaning to tell you, I just
think you’re so brave.”
My brow furrows into a knot. “For what?”
“That dress. It’s so stunning, of course, but I would just be so self-
conscious. It’s just really nice to see a big girl rocking her curves, ya know?
So body positive of you.”
Jenny nods and so do most of the other girls. “So brave.”
My blood turns to lava, and I think I might just explode. Being called
brave is one of my biggest pet peeves. When someone calls me brave for
going out or wearing a fitted dress or for some other normal thing that every
other girl does, what it really means is: I would be mortified to look like

you, but good for you for merely existing even if all I can think about is how
fat you are and how I’m terrified I’ll one day look like you. So brave.

Addison places a hand on my shoulder. “I just want you to know that no
matter what happens tonight at elimination and no matter who finds true
love, the truest love is the love we give ourselves.”

Everyone except Stacy lets out a giant awwwwww. Our eyes meet for a
moment, and it’s a small relief to know that someone else is seeing Addison
for who she really is.

“I love girl bonding,” says Anna, her hands clutched to her chest.
I nearly vault myself across the crowd to shake her shoulders and
scream, Don’t you see how belittling this is! I’m not brave for wearing a
dress. I’m just living!
But instead, I clear my throat and say, “Thanks, girl.”
“Ladies.”
We all spin around to see Henry returning to the group after a brief one-
on-one with Sara Claire, who is beaming.
“Hi, Henry,” a few girls say in singsong voices.
“Jenny, are you okay?” he asks.
She nods pitifully.
“Took a real spill, there. I think you might be tougher than some of the
guys on my college lacrosse team,” he says.
“We’ve been taking very good care of our sweet Jenny,” Addison says.
She moves to stand right next to Jenny, practically elbowing Stacy out of
the way. “Girls gotta look out for each other.”
Henry nods. “I couldn’t agree more.” He laughs quietly. “You know,
I’ve got to be honest with you. The whole concept of this show is a little
bizarre to me.”
I notice a cameraman look over to Mallory, but she waves him on to
keep filming.
“And I know that the risk is on you ladies. You’re all here, putting
yourselves out there with no guarantees,” Henry continues. “And it’s just
really nice to see you all helping one another out. I know this is technically
a competition, but for me, it’s more about finding the right connection.
That’s not some kind of sport. So thank you, Addison. I really appreciate
seeing you be kind to the other women.”
My blood boils and my lip curls. What kind of patronizing crap speech
was that? There was some truth to what he said, sure, but playing right into

Addison’s deceitful games? Could he be more clueless?
Addison smiles and shrugs innocently. “You think I could steal you

away for just a few?”
Henry holds his arm out to her. “Gladly.”
She drapes her arm through his, and we all watch them walk off

together to the gazebo a few yards past the pool.
A petite brunette with freckles sprinkling the bridge of her nose sighs.

“It’s not fair how good they look together.”
Jenny sighs in agreement. “It’s totally criminal.”
“Bless her heart,” Sara Claire mutters.
I turn to her and find her frowning, shoulders slumped. “You look like

you could use a drink,” I say.
She holds a hand out for me, and we stomp to the bar. “Bless you,” she

says.
We each get a glass of rosé, and I ask, “How was your one-on-one?”
She eyes me, her lip twitching with uncertainty. I guess in some sort of

primal sense we’re all competing for love in the real world, but this show is
much more direct than people just trying to meet at a bar or on an app.
Figuring out how to communicate with the other women and even befriend
them is confusing, and there’s no rule book for how to navigate it.

“I think I like him,” she finally says. “I know that the cameras want to
see me swooning and losing it for him. He’s the one who decides who goes
home, but I need to know if I want to stay here and fight for a chance with
him too, ya know? I have a whole career back home.”

“That’s a lot to leave behind,” I say, suddenly feeling like I have nothing
to offer—no career, no real family, and not even a home, technically.

“Look at Addison. One thing goes on the internet or TV and no matter
how hard you work, it’s all you’re known for. I don’t want to make that
same mistake here.”

I nod feverishly, because this is a concern I’m familiar with. The
decision to be here at all is a gamble.

“He seems like a sort of normal guy, though.”
Thinking back to the guy I met on the plane, it’s hard to imagine that he
would ever sign up for something like this show, but I’m sure he thinks the
same about me.
“He’s got to know that any woman who’s saying he’s the one for her
after just one night is totally full of it. Surely he has that much—”

She’s interrupted by a loud boom and then everything goes black, and
the only sound echoing through the mountains is the shrieking of twenty-
five women and the curses of a handful of crew members.

“W e’re dark!” someone shouts.
“What about the backup generators?” another person yells
back.

“Sara Claire?” I ask, trying my best not to sound like I’m scared of the
dark. I’m not, but it’s also really unsettling to not even be able to see your
own hand in front of you, especially in a place you don’t know that well to
begin with.

I gasp as fingers wrap around my wrist and tug.
“Who is that?” I whisper as I trip over my feet, barely able to keep up in
my heels. “Anna? Drew?”
I falter as I accidentally veer off the pathway into the grass, my heel
immediately sinking.
The hand pats up my arm, steadying me. “Careful,” says a voice. But
this voice is deeper than I was expecting.
“Henry?” I ask.
“We only have a few minutes,” he says as we take a few more careful
steps.
I can hear him fumbling with something and then the clicking of a
doorknob.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Watch your step,” he says, grasping my forearm now.
My eyes have begun to adjust, and there’s just enough moonlight that I
can make out a bed or a couch and his silhouette.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, which is not what I expected to
come out of his mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that…I’m just shocked
to see you. That’s all.”
“Shocked in a bad way?” I dare to ask as I look up to him, searching for
the reflection of his eyes. “I guess the better question is what are you doing
here?”
“Well,” he says, “I guess I’m here to meet my future fiancée.”

I cover my mouth to stop myself from spitting on him as I sputter with
laughter.

“I’m serious,” he says with a lilt in his voice. “I, um, meant to ask for
your number, though, so I guess this is convenient.”

“So you came here to find your wife, but you meant to get my number
at the airport?” I can’t tell if he’s just not taking this show seriously or if
he’s actually a total playboy, and then I remember what Sara Claire said
about him likely trying to rehab his image. He can be as charming as he
wants, but I have no plans to be a pawn in his publicity stunt.

He shakes his head. “Honestly, I don’t know why I came here. I almost
didn’t.” He sighs, and I can smell the sweet wine on his breath. “I’m just
trying to do right by my mom.”

“Your mom?” I ask. “What are you talking about?”
The lights flicker back on and off and then on again. We both blink
wildly as our eyes adjust to the light cascading from the ornate chandelier
overhead.
I can see now that he appears a little more distraught than he sounded.
His forehead is creased with worry, and his bee-stung lower lip is turned
downward into a frown. But then I remember from the plane how his
almost relaxed, eternal expression seemed to be a slight frown, and I can’t
help but find that to be just a little bit sexy. I’ve got a soft spot for the sad
ones. The thoughtful ones.
“Your mom,” I finally manage to say after spending way too much time
staring at him. “What does this have to do with your mom?”
He throws his arms up a little. “It’s a long story. I just…We need a win
—the whole company needs a win.”
Faraway voices carry down the pathway to—
“Where are we?” I ask, looking around to see a half-made bed and a
suitcase on a luggage stand. “Is this your room?” I have so many more
important questions. “Your bed is, like, huge. Did you know they have us
four to a room up there in the château? What kind of château requires four
grown women to sleep in twin beds in the same room?”
That gets a chuckle out of him. “Yes, I know. I’m very lucky. But we’ve
got to get out of here before they find us.”
My eyes widen. “Oh yeah.” I can only imagine what kind of drama it
might cause if on the first night the suitor went missing with one of the
contestants during a blackout.

He moves to open the door but stops. “Wait. We have to decide what
we’re going to do.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.
“We’re going to keep quiet, right? About knowing each other. I think
that would be best,” he says.
I press my lips together in a thin line as I think for a moment. I know
that logically that is the absolute best choice, but a very small wiggling
familiarity in the pit of my stomach is reminded of the one or two times
when some jerk has convinced me to be his secret for whatever reason,
usually because he didn’t want to be the guy dating the fat girl. I shake the
thought from my mind. That’s not the case here. I’m on live TV, practically
courting this guy for the whole world to see, but old habits die hard,
especially when you’re a fat girl who will forever be untangling her body-
image issues no matter how okay she is with herself.
I should tell him that I told Anna and Drew, but then that might uncover
my other and perhaps even bigger secret. Stepmom, sisters, and the whole
shebang.
“Okay. It’s going into the vault. As far I’m concerned we’ve never met.”
He turns, like he’s just remembered something, and begins to dig
through the hulking wardrobe in the corner of the room.
“Is…Is everything okay?” I ask, like I’ve interrupted something.
He glances over his shoulder. “Yes, just give me a sec…. You look great
tonight, by the way. I mean, you did on the flight too, but…you know what
I mean.”
My cheeks flush immediately. That’s not something I ever expected the
Prince Charming from the plane to say.
“Follow thirty seconds behind me,” he says. “If people ask if we snuck
off, play coy. Keep it innocent.” He spins on his heel and walks back to me
with something clutched to his chest.
I nod.
“Better for us to fess up to this than…well, you know.” He smiles, his
gaze lingering on my lips. “Here,” he says, handing me a slim walkie-talkie
with an antenna.
“What? Did you bring this straight from your tree house? Breaker,
breaker one nine, this is Cabbage Patch, do you copy?”
He shakes his head impatiently, but he’s still smiling. “I swiped them
from one of the trailers when no one was looking. I don’t even really know

why, or how much battery they have, but I guess if we’re going to keep a
secret, we should at least have some sort of secret form of communication.
But, uh, Cabbage Patch, huh?”

“Henry!” a woman’s voice calls.
Startled, I drop the walkie-talkie and we both reach for it at once,
knocking heads. “Ow, sorry,” I say.
“I got it,” he says as he rubs his forehead. He stands upright and hands
me the walkie-talkie again, but this time his hand holds on for a beat or two
and his thumb grazes my wrist, leaving a trail of goose bumps that travel up
my arm as I suck in a breath.
His gaze holds mine for a moment before the voice calls his name
again, and he snaps out of it with a chuckle. “Shit. Okay, I gotta go.”
“Go,” I tell him. “I’ll follow after. See you later, stranger.”
“Try to avoid the lava.” He winks and dashes out the door before I can
say another word.
I plop down on his bed and begin to count. One Mississippi, two
Mississippi, three Mississippi…
I try shoving the walkie-talkie down my bra, but the antenna isn’t
helping anything. Finally, I manage to maneuver it, and thank goodness it’s
a flexible antenna.
With a few more seconds to burn, I begin to nose around a little. I can’t
help myself. On his nightstand is a small Moleskine notebook. I reach for it
and find the front page to be speckled with numbers and doodles. Flipping
through the pages, I don’t find much else except for a few funny stick figure
drawings and one page that says JAY, GET ME OUT OF THIS MEETING in
huge caps. I laugh. Subtle.
Doubling back to the first page, I find a clear space and press my lips to
the paper, leaving the impression of my red lips for him to find later. It’s a
secret, untraceable message from me to him. And I instantly regret it. I’m
about to swipe my thumb across the page when I realize that it’ll just create
a smudge, which might actually be creepier. No, no, no. This is way more
stalker energy than I meant to give off.
Nice, Cabbage Patch, real nice.

E limination takes place around three in the morning. We’re all bleary-
eyed and yawning, but that doesn’t stop the nervous shifting as we
wait for Henry to make his entrance. In the row behind mine, a girl yawns
loudly, and I find Allison, who fell in the pool, wearing a matching track
suit with her still-damp hair swept into a ponytail. At least I can say I didn’t
have her night.

The crew staggers all of us on the steps of the château. This is the big
elimination that will send home seven girls, and despite the moment Henry
and I shared in the guesthouse and the walkie-talkie stuffed down my bra, I
think I stand a fifty-fifty chance of going home. Maybe he thinks it would
just be easier for us both if he sent me home and we didn’t have to pretend
like we’ve never met. Or maybe he doesn’t care, and he’s really just here
for his mom—whatever that means. Regardless, I know exactly what I’m
here for, and if I stand any shot of taking home that prize money or at the
very least making a big enough splash that might end in a job offer or two, I
have to last beyond tonight.

“Look alive, ladies!” Beck shouts.
“Roll camera!” someone calls.
“Rolling,” the camerawoman calls back.
“Roll audio!”
“Rolling!”
Behind us the doors of the château open with a creak good enough to be
a sound effect, and I can’t help but turn around. This could be the last time I
see Henry.
But it’s not Henry. Instead, Chad Winkle, the longtime host of Before
Midnight, steps out in his signature tux with sparkling deep navy lapels and
a matching bow tie. He’s a little more salt-and-pepper than I remember, but
in general, Chad has aged well thanks to modern science. He lets out a
chuckle as he waves to the contestants, and my stomach flip-flops as I recall
the last time I saw him—a New Year’s Eve party hosted by Erica when I

was just a freshman in high school. It was my first semifamous-people party
after she and Dad got married. (Unless you count the wedding.) Surely,
Chad doesn’t remember Anna, Drew, or me, and even if he does, I remind
myself that he’s a professional television show host and is totally capable of
keeping his cool.

“Good evening, ladies,” he says as he takes his place in front of the line
of Rolls-Royces prepared to whisk away the disqualified contestants.
Beside him is a column that you’d normally expect to display a sculpture or
flower arrangement, but instead there’s a perfectly stacked pyramid of
scrolls. “It seems that some of you had some very real connections with
Henry this evening. What a lucky man. Let’s bring Henry out!”

Henry steps through the doors of the château, and as he makes his way
down the steps, a ripple of giggles follows. He shakes hands with Chad and
gives us all a smirk and a nod. “Ladies.”

“You had some tough decisions to make tonight,” says Chad.
“I did. I met a lot of really special people.”
“Well, let’s get to it.”
My stomach clenches into a knot. This is it.
Henry clears his throat to call a name, but Wes shouts, “Cut! Hold your
places!”
Irina, Ginger, and Ash run out to Henry and quickly primp, tugging on
his suit, tousling his hair, and powdering his forehead.
“Talk about ruining the moment,” Stacy whispers behind me, and I
snicker.
After Ash, Irina, and Ginger scatter, we’re back and rolling.
“Addison,” calls Henry, making her the first name to be called.
Predictable. I try not to roll my eyes in case the camera is on me.
He calls a few other names, including Jenny, which is a good look for
him, because who wants to be the guy to send the girl who crash-landed on
her face home? One by one, they each take a scroll and excitedly unroll it.
“Anna,” he says.
My stepsister squeals, but then doubles back to squeeze Drew’s hand.
Anna gives Henry a hug and thanks him for the scroll.
As she takes her place back on the steps, Henry calls Drew’s name, and
I see the tension in her shoulders immediately melt.
Name after name. Sara Claire. Stacy. Allison. Jen K. And then some I
don’t know. Amelia. Genevieve. Felicity. Morgan.

And then finally—“Cindy.”
My sinking heart floats back up my chest like a drifting balloon. I make
my way down the marble staircase, breath held. Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t
fall, don’t fall.
“Will you accept this scroll?” asks Henry as he hands me the final one.
I nod so hard my head could fall off, and then I lean in for a hug,
reaching up and sliding an arm around his neck as I casually kiss his cheek,
feeling stupidly brave even though my heart is pounding so hard I’m scared
he can hear it. “Thank you,” I whisper into his ear.
When I turn back, I find Anna and Drew with wide eyes and slack jaws,
while nearly everyone else is shooting mental daggers at my face. Including
Addison, whose lips are pursed with irritation.
Girls like Addison have never been threatened by girls like me, and I
can’t help it. I love watching these tables turn.
“Well, ladies,” Chad says in his most official host voice. “I’m sorry to
say that if you did not receive a scroll tonight, you have been eliminated.
Thank you so much for joining us this evening and taking a shot at true
love. Please make your way to the front to say your goodbyes to Henry.”
I clutch my paper scroll in my hand as I watch seven women, including
Juggling Judith and Brenda the Spanish teacher, say goodbye to Henry and
slide into the back seat of a Rolls-Royce.
Beside me, Jenny frowns. “I really liked Judith.”
Behind me, a tall woman with luscious brown curls who I believe is
named Amelia says, “Me too. She was my roommate.”
“Well, don’t get too sad, Amelia,” Addison counters. “The sooner other
women go home, the longer we stay. Besides, now you have one less person
to share a room with.”
Amelia shrugs.
“Okay,” Wes says through the bullhorn like we’re all cattle again, “let’s
get all the ladies who are left to make their way down the steps and mingle
with Chad and Henry. Music will be playing over your conversation, so no
need to be interesting. I know we’re all way past due for some sleep.”
I stifle a yawn and follow down the steps.
“Read your scrolls! Camera two, get me some over-the-shoulder shots
of the scrolls,” calls Wes. “Grab a glass of champagne from the trays!”
“Do we have to?” Drew says under her breath. She waits for me at the
bottom of the stairs while Anna shimmies her way through the crowd to

Henry.
I chuckle, and we make our way to Mallory, who is quickly pouring

glass after glass of cheap champagne.
“Maybe I’m still on New York time,” I say with a yawn.
“Do you think Mom even realizes how much they try to get people to

drink on set?” Drew asks quietly.
“I doubt it.” But the truth is, I bet the booze mandate comes straight

from Erica. She’s the brains behind this whole thing. She’s been lubricating
reality television contestants with alcohol since Anna and Drew were in
diapers. Even the scrolls were her idea. She said in high school a boy asked
her out by pretending to read from a scroll like it was an official decree, and
ever since then, she’d found the idea of this funny, a little inside joke to
herself. In fact, they even sent out scrolls as the invitation to her and Dad’s
wedding. It was a very elaborate affair.

Drew pours her glass on the pavement and turns to me with a fake
laugh, as a camera creeps past us.

I want to just give her a hug and walk arm in arm back into the house
with her and Anna. I hate that we’re not all in the same room, even though I
know it’s for the best.

I open my scroll to read.

HEAR YE, HEAR YE!

You have been invited to stay at the château, where you will
compete for a chance at true love at the request of Henry
Mackenzie. Congratulations, and good luck in your pursuit.
Henry asks for the pleasure of your company later this week.
More details to come.

I roll up the scroll for safekeeping. I know it’s just a silly prop, but I feel
weirdly sentimental for it already, like it’s the one little souvenir of my time
here. At least I’ll always be able to say I made it past the first round. Drew
reaches up and pushes a wisp of hair out of my face. “Anna’s got it bad for
this guy.”

I cringe a little. “Oof, really?”
Drew laughs. “Anna’s got it bad for every guy we’ve ever met. But
don’t worry. As soon as she sees how much you like him, she’ll back off.”

I smile down into my glass of champagne. I’d never admit to having a
favorite between the two of my stepsisters, but Drew’s always been just a
little more intuitive and easier to talk to than Anna. I love Anna, but she’s a
little airy and just a teensy bit self-involved. Her moods and feelings are as
fickle as an afternoon rain shower, but even though she can be a little hard
to pin down, she’s always been good to me.

I mean, mostly good. Except for those few times back in high school
when I was a freshman and Anna and Drew were sophomores. The two of
them were busy trying to impress the older popular girls ahead of us. And
then one day they were the older popular girls and suddenly, when they had
no one to answer to but themselves, having their chubby half sister tag
along wasn’t such a social crime.

“Is it that obvious?” I ask. “That I like him?” It’s the first time I’m
really admitting it, even to myself.

Drew rolls her eyes. “You were the last to get a scroll and you strutted
yourself up there, gave him a long hug, a kiss on the cheek, and whispered
in his ear. You basically marked your territory. It was super hot, but trust me
—if you didn’t have a target on your back, you do now.”

T he next morning the house is buzzing with eighteen women doing their
very specific morning routines. Smoothies, detox tea, avocado toast,
yoga, Pilates, meditation. I settle for eggs with hot sauce, sliced avocado,
orange juice, and a patio lounger. Last night, I tried to stay awake and flip
through a few channels on the walkie-talkie, but after a marathon of
filming, I hid my contraband gadget in one of my shoes and passed out.

As I’m eating my breakfast, I can’t help but overhear Addison holding
court with a small group of women on the other side of the pool.

“Yeah, his mom was iconic, but the whole brand needs a major face-
lift,” Addison whispers.

What? I run through the mental catalog of designers who I consider
iconic for anyone who would have a son around Henry’s age. After all the
excitement of last night, I completely forgot about Henry’s mysterious
fashion empire roots.

“I just think it’s so precious that he’s staying in the family business,” a
small redhead with corkscrew curls says in a dreamy voice.

Addison rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t say it’s precious, Chloe. More like a
last-ditch effort to save a sinking ship.”

Jenny frowns. “I wore a LuMac dress to homecoming in tenth grade. I
still have it. I love that dress.”

I gasp loudly. LuMac. Lucy freaking Mackenzie. Oh my God. Henry
Mackenzie. How could I possibly have missed this?

From the small patch of grass where a few women are doing yoga,
Anna stretches downward and waves at me from between her spread legs.

I snort. Classy. I beckon her with one hand, and she not-so-discreetly
extracts herself from the group.

“Isn’t this kind of great?” she asks as she plops down on the lounger
next to me and takes a swig of my orange juice. “Is this what college was
like? I would have been, like, really good at sorority stuff. Kappa Gamma
Boo-Hoo or whatever.”

I laugh. “No, definitely not. Especially not design school. Um, did I
miss something this morning?”

She taps a finger to her lips and thinks for a moment before letting out a
soft gasp. “One of the junior producers dropped off these little packets in
the kitchen called the Henry Bible, and it’s—”

I stand up quickly and run back into the kitchen, where—sure enough!
—there on the second kitchen island is a small stack of papers stapled
together—much less ostentatious than last night’s scrolls.

I grab a Henry Bible for myself and return to the pool, where I find
Anna polishing off the rest of my breakfast. “Anna!”

“What?” she asks with her mouth full of my eggs. “You know I can’t
cook.”

It’s true. She’s like a little raccoon, always eating everyone else’s
scraps. “It’s fine. I’ll make some more in a bit.”

She lies back and rubs her now-full belly as I study the Henry Bible.
The first page is all about his mom and the business, but I probably could
have written a better version myself.

Lucy Mackenzie is a Parsons alumna, so I am plenty familiar with her.
The faculty talks about successful alumni on a loop, like it’s some kind of
infomercial even though we’ve already agreed to sink an ungodly amount
of money into our education. Lucy Mackenzie was a favorite of several of
my professors. She’s best known for her slip dress, which was a ’90s
phenomenon where everyone started wearing lingerie as clothing. Everyone
always credits Calvin Klein or John Galliano as the creators of the slip dress
that started it all. But Lucy Mackenzie (maiden name Mercado), a young,
recently married half–Puerto Rican designer from Queens fresh out of
design school actually debuted her version of the slip dress at her senior
show in 1994, which was actually based off a design in her admissions
portfolio from 1989. She worked under Isaac Mizrahi on and off for a little
while before striking out on her own, and by 1997, her slip dress was being
worn by pop stars and the teens who loved them. She managed to evolve
through the early 2000s and expand into streetwear and footwear. Now her
dresses have become a staple in department store formal sections, which is
not so good for a luxury brand. I think I remember my textiles professor
saying the company had recently filed for bankruptcy.

As for Henry, the packet tells us he’s just about to take over all of
LuMac’s business dealings and has high hopes of expanding the brand, but

as much as I can’t stand Addison, she’s not entirely wrong. LuMac is in
desperate need of a face-lift.

All I know about Henry is what I’ve heard around Parsons and read on
Page Six. He went to Harvard Business School and has been seen all over
town with other children of famous people. Though I never actually
committed his name to memory, because he was just another designer’s kid.
Plenty of celebrity kids went to Parsons, so I know the exact type of crowd
he might have hung out with. Half-assing their way through school because
they’ve already got a job or a golden opportunity waiting for them on the
other end. And charming as he might be, I’m sure Henry is no different.

When I head back upstairs to toy with my walkie-talkie some more, I
find Sara Claire in a towel on her bed. “Did you know that girl Chloe has a
whole room to herself now?” she asks. “All of her roomies got sent home
last night.”

“That’s some incredible luck,” I say, and then eyeing Addison’s bed, I
add, “Maybe we’ll manage to get just as lucky.”

“Fingers crossed!” She points to the papers rolled up under my arm.
“Well, I was sort of right,” she says. “He’s here for redemption. I just didn’t
think it would be Mommy’s company on the line. You’re in fashion. You
heard anything about him?”

I sink into the armchair in the corner. “His mom went to Parsons, like
me, and she’s a big deal there. I haven’t heard much about him other than
the usual Page Six stuff.” I shrug. “New arm candy every night. Bad-boy
antics in the Hamptons. Et cetera, et cetera.”

He was so witty on the plane…and then again last night, but now it’s
hard to imagine him as anything more than just another rich boy.

“Where’d you go last night?” she asks. “During the blackout? I kept
meaning to ask you.”

“Nowhere,” I say too quickly. My throat feels like sandpaper all of a
sudden. I hate lying, especially to people I like.

“You were there one minute and gone the next, and then when the lights
came up, I didn’t see you.”

I shrug as nonchalantly as I can. “I guess we just got split up in the dark.
What do you think, I’m some Navy SEAL?”

Sara Claire snorts. “Yeah, I can just see you slinking around the château
in that super-sexy dress with some serious night vision goggles on. Not at
all suspicious.”

“Da-dum, da-dum,” I sing.
“All right, Pink Panther Elite, I’m going to get dressed and then I guess
we just go downstairs and wait around for a group-date invitation.”
“Oh, yay, more waiting around for men to do something.”
“Cue the confetti cannon,” she says.

“T his place reeks,” Addison mumbles.
Sara Claire snickers. “Welcome to a farm, babe.”
We all sit on our yoga mats, miked up and ready to go. It’s our first
group date, and while I’m not opposed to yoga or goats, this isn’t exactly
my ideal first date. The invitation didn’t come for a whole two days. A few
of the others were about to go absolutely feral, begging the producers for
details and hints. But they held firm while keeping us busy with
confessionals and interviews. I took every possible moment I could to sneak
away and play with my walkie-talkie radio thing like I was twelve years
old, but all I heard was a few crew members asking why there aren’t
enough gluten-free options for lunch.

The group date invitation came at the exact right time, though, because I
thought I was about to witness an all-out war when Stacy discovered Chloe
had put a completely empty container of soy milk back in the refrigerator.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Henry says as he emerges from the barn with
a tall, thin guy wearing a one-piece Lycra outfit and a slouchy cropped
sweater over the top.

“Good afternoon, Henry,” we all say back to him in a singsong voice
that makes us sound like Charlie’s Angels and actually makes me a little bit
queasy.

Cameras weave in and out of the group, catching everyone’s reactions
to Henry’s muscled thighs in black athletic shorts and the sight of his bare
arms on display thanks to his tank.

“When I was in college, I got injured pretty badly on the lacrosse field,
and one thing that really helped me rebound was yoga, so my pal Corbin
here is going to lead us all in a class with some help from our little friends.”

“Cue the goats!” Zeke calls.
Behind Henry and Corbin, the barn doors open again and a dozen goats
trickle out.
Catching myself off guard, I let out a delighted shriek. I don’t know if
I’ve just never spent enough quality time with goats or if I’m just caught up
in the moment, but these little guys are so damn cute it makes my ovaries
hurt.
Henry laughs, and a serenely creepy smile spreads across Corbin’s face.
Yoga instructor or cult leader? TBD.
Corbin leads us through a few basic poses, and I surprise myself with
my ability to balance during tree pose. As he leads us into downward dog, a
white goat with the name Chippy on his collar walks up the back of my legs
and stands on my butt, like he’s conquered the biggest mountain of all. And
perhaps he has. If it wasn’t so funny, I would probably die at the thought of
how likely this is to make it onto national television.
We continue on through a variety of poses, and I’m impressed to see
just how fluid Henry is in every single movement.
“He’s a real snack,” says Sara Claire as she displays her expert
flexibility, stretching into upward dog. She catches me eyeing her and adds,
“Cheered through middle school, high school, and college. I was a tumbler.
My body is basically saltwater taffy at this point.”
“Very nice,” Corbin says to her as he passes us by.
“Teacher’s pet,” I whisper.
She grins.
After a few more poses, Corbin sits alongside Henry. “Let’s transition
into couples yoga. Since we’re an odd number, I’m going to choose one of
you who impressed me during the first half of our session.” He points to
Sara Claire. “Join Henry at the front.”
Sara Claire’s eyes light up as she leaves her mat to be with Henry.
“Now, look to your neighbor and partner up with that person,” Corbin
instructs.
I groan quietly and turn to find that Addison is also less than pleased
with our situation.
Since she makes no effort to move, I scoot over with my mat.

“Don’t screw this up for me,” she says. “The women who perform well
or stand out during the group date usually get guaranteed one-on-one time
or the solo date.”

“Sit down and face your partner,” Corbin says. “With your legs crossed
and your wrists resting on your knees, take a moment to ground yourself.”

I get situated and close my eyes. If I don’t have to see Addison, it’s like
she’s not there. I try to think calming thoughts. Father-daughter trips with
Dad to see Muir Woods, but that quickly devolves into a heavy guilt in my
chest as I remember the box of Dad’s (and Mom’s) belongings I left under
my bed in Erica’s pool house. The last earthly pieces of my parents and I
left them to gather dust while I ran off to do goat yoga on a reality TV
show.

I take a deep breath and try again for new calming thoughts. Sleeping in
so late on Saturday mornings that my bed is hot with sunshine. Color-
coding my shoe collection and micro-organizing by heel height. Going to
Coney Island with Sierra in the dead of winter. But all I can see is the
silhouette of that box and Erica’s handwriting scrawled across the top. None
of my happy thoughts are able to set me entirely at ease. I haven’t felt fully
like myself since this whole thing started. It’s like I can remember who I
envision myself to be and the person who I think I am, but the reality of
who I am in this moment feels like a stranger to me.

“Now open your eyes,” Corbin continues. “Look into your partner’s
eyes.”

I open my eyes and see Addison making a side-eye glance at Henry and
Sara Claire. The two of them are grinning silly at each other. Henry
whispers something to her when Corbin’s back is turned, and Sara Claire
has to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing. The other night, everyone
made such a point of how good Addison and Henry looked together, but
Sara Claire and Henry are the ones who seem like a perfect match to me. It
doesn’t take much imagination at all to picture how their lives might
intertwine and play out together. A wedding. A family. Picture-perfect
vacations. Grandkids. Hand in hand until the very end.

“Stupid hillbilly,” Addison mutters.
“She’s from Austin,” I say. “That’s, like, a huge city.”
“Whatever. Just look into my eyes or something.”
I take a deep breath and proceed to have the most intense staring contest
I’ve had with anyone since Billy Samples challenged me to one in fifth

grade. Winner had to do the loser’s vocabulary homework for a week. (I
won and did my own homework, because I’m terrified of getting in
trouble.)

“Now reach out and embrace your partner’s forearms,” says Corbin.
“Very nice,” he tells Henry and Sara Claire. “Now, everyone, breathe in and
out in sync with your partner. You are a unit. Their breath is your breath.”

“You’re breathing too fast,” I tell Addison.
“You’re not breathing fast enough,” she says.
Corbin walks us through a few poses, some of which involve Addison’s
ass way too close to my head. “Now, this next pose I only recommend for
the most experienced yogis out there. But I think you and Sara Claire can
handle it,” he says to Henry.
Henry looks to Sara Claire, his brow arched in question, and she shrugs
with a giggle.
“This is called the double plank. Henry, you’ll position yourself in a
plank on the ground,” Corbin continues. “And, Sara Claire, you’ll also do a
plank, but on Henry’s back, facing the opposite direction with your feet on
his shoulders.”
A quiet groan rolls through the rest of us as Sara Claire and Henry play
their little game of Twister as she crawls on top of him.
A row ahead of me, Jenny sighs dramatically as she rests her chin in her
hands.
“Is it possible for seventeen people to feel like a third wheel at one
time?” I hear someone ask.
Sara Claire’s perfect breasts brush the back of Henry’s legs, and then
voilà! They hit their planking pose for just a few seconds before Sara Claire
balances on one arm and touches the bottom of Henry’s foot with the other.
Henry kicks wildly, and they both tumble to the ground in a fit of
laughter.
“No tickling allowed!” Henry cries.
My stomach flip-flops as I notice the crew eating it all up, pulling in
closer to the two of them.
Corbin lets out a stilted laugh—this is definitely breaking the rules of
yoga. He leads us through one last breathing exercise. “With your eyes
closed, I want you to remember that we are all connected and everything
happens for a reason. The universe is a series of reactions. Will you be the
re or the action?”

“I think I’m having a reaction to this bullshit,” Stacy whispers behind
me.

I snort with laughter and my face turns a deep shade of red. When I
open my eyes, the only other person who sees me is Henry. He watches me
with one eye open and a faint smile.

“Namaste,” says Corbin.
Everyone else opens their eyes, and Henry’s gaze stays steady on me.
Warmth sinks from my chest all the way down to my belly, and I almost
have to force myself to look away.
“Namaste,” we repeat.

Back at the house, we all take turns showering post-yoga and slowly
congregate downstairs in the expansive living room. Exploring the château
over the last few days has been almost otherworldly. The furniture is ornate
and lush, but nothing is actually comfortable. The house is clean, but every
room only looks good from certain angles, because there are cords and
lights left out for night shooting, or rooms with bad lighting. With no
library, television, or internet to keep us busy, we’ve been left to our own
devices when it comes to entertainment. Last night, our attempts devolved
into a contest of Chubby Bunny, which resulted in us getting in trouble with
Mallory, who had stashed the marshmallows for later so they could get
some B-roll of us all making s’mores.

“The first solo date is tonight,” Chloe says as she methodically
scrunches her wet curls in her hands. “I’d bet money on it.”

“Unless your money can buy me five minutes on Twitter, it’s no good
here,” Stacy says.

“Am I right?” Chloe asks Mallory, who is sitting perched on the arm of
the sofa alongside one lone camera guy and a sound tech in case we do
something interesting, but Mallory just shrugs and continues to type into
her phone.

Drew sighs. “Sara Claire is a shoo-in for the solo date.”
Jenny’s whole body flops in agreement.
Anna studies her hand. “Does anyone know how to read palms? I feel
like this one line is really short, and what if that’s, like, my life line? I was
staring at it last night, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Honestly, it took

me, like, three hours to fall asleep, and I forgot to pack my melatonin, so I
just really wish I could get an answer.”

Stacy takes her wrist and looks over the lines of Anna’s palm. “If I had
a stupid phone, I’d be able to look this up and tell you, but until then, all I
can say is it’s either your life line or your love line. But it does shoot off
into a—”

The doorbell rings, a deep chime and then a high one.
“I’ll get it!” Drew says before tearing off for the door.
Mallory thumps the camera guy on the leg, and he jolts to attention as
Sara Claire joins the rest of us with freshly dried hair.
Drew comes racing back, waving a gold envelope in the air. “Gather
round, ladies!”
We all pile up on the couches, and even Addison seems to be eager.
“Well, open it!” Allison demands.
Drew steps onto the coffee table and clears her throat. “‘Ladies,’” she
reads, “‘thank you for spending the afternoon with me. You’re all the
GOAT.’”
“We’re the goat?” Anna asks. “What does that even mean?”
“G-O-A-T,” Drew spells out. “The greatest of all time.”
Stacy shakes her head and looks to Mallory. “Please tell me one of you
people is writing these corny-ass messages and not this man we’re supposed
to be finding attractive.”
A few other girls giggle, and Mallory just says, “It’s a pun! Puns can be
sexy.”
“Sure, Jan,” Stacy says.
I turn to her. “I think I love you.”
“Keep reading!” Addison shouts.
“From the top, please,” Mallory says. “I’d like to get one clean take.”
“Okay, okay,” says Drew. “‘Ladies,’” she reads, “‘thank you for
spending the afternoon with me. You’re all the GOAT. Tomorrow night I
hope you’ll all join me for the ball, but tonight I’d like to get a little alone
time with a girl who really stood out for me today. Sara Claire, please meet
me outside the château at seven o’clock, and wear your dancing shoes.’”
Disappointment weighs me down as all the other girls squeal and
pretend to be happy for Sara Claire. I know she got the most one-on-one
time with him during yoga, so this makes sense, but I held on to some kind
of hope that he might choose me after that look we shared.

Sara Claire bounces a little at my side.
“You’re going to have so much fun,” I tell her, the words burning on my
tongue.

W hile Sara Claire is getting ready in the bathroom and both Stacy and
Addison are out by the pool, I take the walkie-talkie out to make
sure it still has some battery. I flip through a few channels.

“I need a second camera on the car outside the château in thirty minutes.
Will Ben be back from—”

I flip again.
Static.
And again.
More static.
“Is anyone else on this channel?” a voice that sounds like it might
belong to Wes asks.
“Hello out there?” Beck’s voice calls.
I turn down the volume dial and hold the speaker to my ear.
“Have you hopped on email in the last hour?” asks Wes. “Erica says the
network likes my pick for wifey.”
Beck is silent for a minute.
“You there?” Wes asks again.
“Yes,” Beck says. “I heard you. Look, let’s talk about this later. We
haven’t even cleared it with Henry yet.”
“Like he—”
“Wes, I gotta run.”
The channel goes silent, so I flip over to the next, expecting to find
more sta—
“Hello?” a voice asks softly.
I know that voice. That voice is his voice.
I press down on the button on the side to respond. “Henry?”
Behind me the door swings opens. In a hurry, I flip the power switch as
fast as I can.
“Hey,” Sara Claire says as I’m stuffing the radio in my shoe with my
back to her. “Were you talking to someone?”

I turn around, trying my best not to look guilty. It’s not easy. “Oh, uh,
maybe just to myself. Sorry, I guess I was thinking out loud.”

She smiles and shakes her head. “My daddy does that all the time. It’s
like his thoughts are too big to just live in his head.”

“So relatable,” I say. “You look great, by the way.”
“Thanks.” She twirls in her sequined little black dress. Simple but chic.
A little boring, but she’s the kind of person who just glows, so she could
wear anything and you’d still want to talk to her. “Wish me luck.”
I swallow dryly. “Good luck.”

I spend most of my night sketching in my bedroom, trying to make my
brain work again. Most of the other women play drinking games
downstairs, but I don’t think my liver can take it. Besides, what they’re
really doing is waiting up for Sara Claire to come home. I’m already feeling
a little miserable, and it’s the kind of miserable that doesn’t play well with
others.

I wish I had my tablet. Switching mediums when I was blocked was a
trick I learned early on, but alas, no electronic devices in the Before
Midnight château. If anyone finds the radio stuffed in my shoe, I’ll get
kicked out faster than I can even zip my suitcase.

The tip of my pencil snaps against my sketch pad, sending a stray line
skidding across the page. Maybe I just have to let it go. Even in school, I
knew that not all of us would succeed as designers. For some reason, I
thought I was special, and that I would defy all odds. But my well is empty.
I have nothing left to give. Deep down I know that I could be happy doing
other things. At least, I think. I could find some sort of job in fashion.
Maybe I could talk to Sierra’s contacts at Macy’s. Maybe I don’t have to
create clothing to work with clothing. The thought of it is a little freeing.
And yet, it pains me deeply to think of letting my longtime dream go.

At around one in the morning, Stacy wobbles through the door and
plops down on her bed. “I think this might be worse than college,” she says,
her last word devolving into a loud burp.

“Girl, you’re nasty,” Addison says as she walks in behind her, strips
down to absolutely nothing, and passes out in her bed.